


If Only

by anotherwinchesterfangirl



Series: Song Prompt Fics [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Stanford Era, Wincest - Freeform, pining!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 14:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6989134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherwinchesterfangirl/pseuds/anotherwinchesterfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean ends up in California, he tells himself it’s an accident even though he knows it isn’t. But while he’s here … he should check up on Sam. Just to make sure he’s okay.</p><p>For the song prompt "If Only She Knew" by Michelle Branch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN Writing Challenge for May 2016.

It’s been a long time since he’s seen his brother. So long that he actually misses those stupid beat-up converse sneakers and the shaggy hair always hanging in his eyes. He misses the sound of Sam’s breathing in the next bed (it took him an embarrassingly long time to learn to sleep in a motel room alone) and his hair clogging the shower drain. Though he’s almost used to the missing by now—it started sharp and hollow in his chest, but by now it’s boiled down to a constant dull ache. It’s been so long that he’s worried that Sam will have changed beyond his recognition, that he won’t know Sam better than anyone else does anymore.

When Sam left, when he walked out in a whirlwind of defiance and anger and regret, Dean was both devastated and relieved. Devastated because Sam had just walked out without looking back; relieved that he wouldn’t have to deal with this … this whatever, this twisted dark thing that had taken root inside him and was threatening to claw its way out through muscle and blood and skin and leave a gaping vulnerable hole in its wake. This feeling, this _wanting_ his brother that was twelve kinds of fucked up and that would probably land him in jail if he ever acted on it.

And at first, it was sweet relief to not have to look at Sam everyday and think about it. But now he realizes it isn’t gone. Sam didn’t take it with him when he left. It’s still there, lurking and wanting and demanding to be dealt with. It’s not going anywhere.

He stopped hunting with Dad a few months back. Dad poured all his anger and worry over Sam into tracking the yellow-eyed demon, and sure Dean wanted to avenge Mom, but he also wanted to help people. He was honestly a little tired of the tunnel-visioned goose chase after some invisible demon. So now it’s just job after job, town after town, drink after drink, girl after girl. Loud music, open road, sleepless nights on bad motel mattresses. There’s nothing grounding him anymore, except maybe the car.

When he ends up in California, he tells himself it’s an accident even though he knows it isn’t. But while he’s here … he should check up on Sam, he tells himself, just to make sure he’s okay, that he’s happy.

He expected to have to track Sam down—Stanford is kind of a big place—but he’s barely two sips into a beer at a sports bar near campus when he feels a pull in his gut, and he knows it’s going to be Sammy before he even looks up to see that familiar shaggy head of hair and long-legged saunter coming through the door.

He’s got a backpack on one shoulder and a gorgeous girl under the other, and Dean’s stomach lurches—a mix of longing and jealousy and some sort of twisted pride. The California sun has been good to him, he’s so golden and bright that Dean almost has to look away, but he _can’t_. Sam looks happy, smiling, but not quite relaxed—there are still shadows of the worry-lines that Dean knows appear on his forehead whenever he gets stressed. He looks thinner, Dean thinks and wonders if he’s eating enough, but his jeans look new—probably picked out by the girl, Dean guesses—and, above that, a half-zippered hoodie and, Dean’s heart pounds, one of Dean’s old Metallica t-shirts.

Dean’s thankful that the place is packed with college students, and Sam and his friends grab a table across bar but straight in his line of sight. He orders another beer and watches them settle in, Sam at the end of the booth with his long legs stretched out and his girl practically attached to his side. She’s gorgeous, leggy and blonde and sun-kissed, a real California dime, and the way she looks at Sam—like she would rather have him naked in her bed—makes Dean’s stomach coil.

She leans into Sam, and he bends down to kiss her slow and deep, his hand cupping her cheek. It’s intimate, like they’re the only ones in the room, like they’re not in the middle of a crowded noisy bar. Dean feels like a peeping tom watching them. When they break apart, she grins up at him, eyes sparkling and dazed, and Sam dimples—practically  _glows_ —back. Even at this distance Dean can tell his brother is totally in love. He knows because deep in his gut he’s wishing Sam would look at _him_ that way. Deep in his gut, he knows that Sam _has_ looked at him that way before, a way that’s always made him wonder. Maybe.

He signals the bartender for another drink and tries to clear his head by looking around the place a little bit. He doubts Sam’s girl has any idea who Sam really is, where he really comes from, what his childhood was really like. He wonders if Sam even told her he has a brother. Dean chuckles bitterly into his drink. A brother that wants to fuck him. Oh, if only she knew.

Dean watches Sam with his group of friends, watches him order a beer and a salad (and is a little embarrassed for the kid). They play trivia, and even from across the room Dean can tell that Sam is dominating the game for his team. He always was the smartest kid.

The sound of Sam’s laugh carries across the bar and makes Dean’s heart feels like it’s going to cave in on itself. He knows he should leave and save himself the pain of this, but he can’t. He can’t stop looking at Sam. He wants to be sitting at that table across from Sam, on the receiving end of that megawatt smile. He wants to take Sam’s face in his hands and kiss the hell out of him. He wants to feel Sam’s body under his, feel Sam breathe against his skin, watch his eyes slide closed in pleasure. He wants and he wants and he wants.

But he looks at Sam, his easy smile, arm slung around his girl’s shoulders, surrounded by friends, laughing at someone’s joke. He can’t remember the last time he saw Sam so happy. Sam and Dad fought constantly—Dean hardly ever heard Sam laugh in those last few years they were all together. At least here Sam’s happy. And that means more to him than anything else. He can live with this twisted desire clawing at his insides, as long as Sammy is happy.

Sam looks a little unsteady on his feet when they get up to leave, but he always was sort of a lightweight. He holds his girl against him by the hips as they wait for their friends to slide out of the booth, and she presses her ass against his crotch coyly. Dean notices Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, and when she looks over her shoulder at Sam, Sam smirks and it’s just about the sexiest damn thing Dean has ever seen. _Jesus._ He presses a palm against his own crotch. He’s gotta get outta here.

**

He had enough to drink that his fingers feel clumsy and thick as he tries to get the motel room door unlocked. As soon as he gets the door open he swings the _Do Not Disturb_ tag over the doorknob and turns the lock. He doesn’t even bother to flip on the light, just sinks down on the bed and toes off his boots. He sits there with his head in his hands for a minute, achingly hard inside his jeans and unable to get the image of Sam and his girl out of his head—the way his eyes softened when he looked at her, the way Sam’s large hands fit just right over her hips, the way Sam swayed toward her, was always pointing his body in her direction, like she was the sun he orbited around.

He didn’t think just _seeing_ Sam again would have this much of an effect on him. He flops backward on the bed and unbuttons his jeans. He wants another beer, or to just go to sleep, but this isn’t just gonna go away. He closes his eyes and breathes deep as he starts to jerk his cock, already slick with precome in his fist. He imagines Sammy pounding into his girl from behind, teeth bared and skin slick with sweat. He bets Sam’s so good at making her feel good, giving her what she needs, what she wants, the way she likes it best.

 _God_ this is so wrong, but he can’t fucking help it. His strokes become faster, more urgent, and he lets out a moan that he wasn’t even expecting. He throws an arm over his face and squeezes his eyes shut; the dark behind his eyelids is all images of his brother, muscle and bone and sweat and breath. He thinks about the noises he could draw out of Sam, the things he could do to make Sam feel so good—and he loses it, long, hot spurts shooting all over his hand and the front of his shirt.

He lays there, panting into the dark for a few minutes, feeling hollow and spent, before peeling off his ruined shirt and shucking his jeans to the floor. He closes his eyes, but he doesn’t sleep.


End file.
